[At an angle of regret, the curve of Shindou's cheek reminds Akira of a peach: easily bruised, with a softness not to be wasted. Akira wishes it were curving against her hand. She wishes she could find out how tangible Shindou's smile might be. She thinks she might be wishing, now, that she could prick their fingers, that they could get all mixed up in each other. How's that for tangibility. But it's been some time since Touya Akira has been more than a concept, a collection of aspirations. So instead, she tells Shindou,] I don't need blood to swear by. [She talks like a suffocating velvet.] As long as you can look at me without being squeamish, I can swear by standing right here. [It's got the potential to smother someone, and the potential to draw out some sweat. She'll swear by her own body, all the blood inside, so she can show Shindou how sturdy she is. She'll pull Shindou upright, the weight of her a satisfying thing, and the presence of her body also allows for the meeting of their eyes. This much is worthy of composing an oath.
They walk down to the third floor, down to Shindou's room. The walk isn't so frantic, this time, no slippery chafe from running in her loafers, no bloated heart sabotaging her gait. Instead, unrelenting, she takes her time in chaperoning Shindou down through every stairwell. Her strides are even, consistent, and hopefully comforting in that, even though there's a secret strain to her thighs that makes her legs feel shaky. That's the downside to tangibility, she supposes, but hopefully she can hide that much. She leads Shindou into the third floor hallway. There aren't any reporters here, but Akira still wants to carry herself in a way that shows Shindou she would have run off anyone who might have come. She wants Shindou to look at the tilt of her chin and know that she would have eaten any of them with hard teeth.
But she loses the bulk of her enamel, once they reach Shindou's door. She passes her own room easily, ready to cling to Shindou's door frame, neglecting her own; but at least there's refuge to be taken in the curl of Shindou's hand. She knows it's shameful in the instant she feels it, because Shindou is the one requiring refuge, and Akira is the one who gives it. But she finds it here regardless: in Shindou's hand, damp and strong and soft, its nearness allowing for the matching of their strides, its willingness to let Akira hold it. Akira doesn't want to be rid of it. She doesn't want Shindou's door frame to be all that's left to cling to.
Shindou's dare would be the sort to make Akira blush, if Akira allowed herself to do that kind of thing. Anxiously, she wonders if she's blushing anyway; it's already too late to keep herself from sucking in half a breath through parted lips. She does want to come in, and it's got to be showing on her face. But it's hard to admit this. It's hard to confess to it. It's too hard to confess. So she says it like this:] May I? [And she is quiet, and she is worried, and she is hopeful. All that is clear in her own hand and its refusal to yield: as pliant as her fingers have been in cradling Shindou's, they're just as much as amber, holding fast and forever. She doesn't feel willing to release Shindou into her room and away into an abstract fate. If she did that, she might not catch Shindou again. It would simply be bad strategy, to let her go.]
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They walk down to the third floor, down to Shindou's room. The walk isn't so frantic, this time, no slippery chafe from running in her loafers, no bloated heart sabotaging her gait. Instead, unrelenting, she takes her time in chaperoning Shindou down through every stairwell. Her strides are even, consistent, and hopefully comforting in that, even though there's a secret strain to her thighs that makes her legs feel shaky. That's the downside to tangibility, she supposes, but hopefully she can hide that much. She leads Shindou into the third floor hallway. There aren't any reporters here, but Akira still wants to carry herself in a way that shows Shindou she would have run off anyone who might have come. She wants Shindou to look at the tilt of her chin and know that she would have eaten any of them with hard teeth.
But she loses the bulk of her enamel, once they reach Shindou's door. She passes her own room easily, ready to cling to Shindou's door frame, neglecting her own; but at least there's refuge to be taken in the curl of Shindou's hand. She knows it's shameful in the instant she feels it, because Shindou is the one requiring refuge, and Akira is the one who gives it. But she finds it here regardless: in Shindou's hand, damp and strong and soft, its nearness allowing for the matching of their strides, its willingness to let Akira hold it. Akira doesn't want to be rid of it. She doesn't want Shindou's door frame to be all that's left to cling to.
Shindou's dare would be the sort to make Akira blush, if Akira allowed herself to do that kind of thing. Anxiously, she wonders if she's blushing anyway; it's already too late to keep herself from sucking in half a breath through parted lips. She does want to come in, and it's got to be showing on her face. But it's hard to admit this. It's hard to confess to it. It's too hard to confess. So she says it like this:] May I? [And she is quiet, and she is worried, and she is hopeful. All that is clear in her own hand and its refusal to yield: as pliant as her fingers have been in cradling Shindou's, they're just as much as amber, holding fast and forever. She doesn't feel willing to release Shindou into her room and away into an abstract fate. If she did that, she might not catch Shindou again. It would simply be bad strategy, to let her go.]